Pinnacle
by Ala
Summary: The world is safe, the tyrant gone, but the Spire still looms ominously on the horizon. The lonely adventurer can only gaze upon it so long before she takes flight. Fable 2, ReaverxSparrow, 1st Person POV.
1. In the Words of a Prince

**In the Words of a Prince**

It seems not to matter how much gold I shower the criers in, nor how many plumes I shove into my noble attire. My real estate standings--from Fairfax Castle to the Bloodstone Mansion--are as inconsequential as the head I stand over every villager, traveller, and thug. My blade might be descended of the Archons of old or coated in the rust and disuse of a gypsy vendor for all the world cares; it may bathe in the blood of scoundrels or innocents.

I could spread my arms and swipe up all of Albion in my grasp, every tomb and treasure, every island and marsh. I could stretch my fingertips until I outgrow the frail beating of my own fragile wings, my hummingbird heart and the words will still taunt me.

Or haunt me.

One can never really be too sure.

The only sure thing is the distrust in his voice, masked poorly in that jovial tone. "_Sparrow!_" I can hear the sarcasm peaking from beneath the quick cover. "My dear woman, what are you doing in Wraithmarsh, and in the middle of this simply dreadful weather?"

The girl at his side is not as clever as he. She has no mask and if she did, she wouldn't know which way of it was up. Her eyes narrow jealously at my stony gaze, my unmoving scowl. Her head suddenly lifts higher, her back straightens as if she has not just recently been complaining of the wind and cold rushing through her translucent little skirt, the way the rocks twist her too high-heels awkwardly, the frightening way the dead just pop from the muck of the ground like evil little parodies of daisies. She must be brave and win his favor back, away from me.

She's an admirable little trollop, but none too bright. She's followed the bastard this far, anyway.

"Reaver?" she coos in a sing song voice, all pouty lips and batting eyelashes, "Who is this?"

I want to announce that I'm the goddamned Lady of the land, owner of everything from the northern most cave of Oakfield to the southern border of this little piece of _Hell _her beloved _Reaver _has cursed, that I have enough gold coins to demand I be called Queen, enough skill to slit her from nose to bellybutton before she'd even known I'd gotten up.

But I don't.

Because I've been sitting in the mists of banshees long enough that my sleeves are clinging to my arms, my skirts plastered to my knees, I've been perched on this rock so long I might as well be part of it, or a gargoyle for it at least. I can think of at least a few insults I'd like to hurl their way.

_Hey, Skill-Hero, is it true you don't know which way to hold your gun?_Now it sounds funny from this end.

But all he can think to do is lean a foot up on my rock, in that familiar arrogant stance, and whisper furiously, "Seriously, Sparrow, _what _are you _doing_?"

Three years hence, since they've abandoned me to the world to seek adventure in exotic lands, since they've surrendered the tower we fought for to some sightless witch, they do not wonder of the fourth Hero, the one to bind them _all_.

They wonder of the Sparrow, with her too-small wings and her humming bird heart.

But there is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow, and if I can unite them in justice then I can unite them in greed, and the quickest means in this category is none other than the Thief King himself.

We regard each other for a small eternity. Behind those pretty blue eyes and that stolen youthful smirk he must know I've been waiting for him, he must know this is the only place I'd know he'd be. Reaver holds no obligation to his positions at home, or his relations to myself, or to any other of our small following for that matter.

Reaver only brakes for Wraithmarsh, to throw some unwitting beauty, some poor bedazzled boy or girl to the mercy of the Shadow Court.

My robes are too heavy when I stand, with guilt, or gold, or rain, I cannot tell, but they match well with his flippant costume when I brush past. My lips move slow in their dark paint, a new and unfamiliar cruelty for his ears. "Throw the tart in the hole, Reaver. I've been waiting to speak with you for some time."

The man smiles, but he doesn't know why.


	2. An Accord

**An Accord**

The entire affair is really quite implicit. Although, I find myself quite unsure if an understanding has really been reached, if our thoughtwaves are buzzing between raindrops, or if I can read his response from the end of that awful pistol...

...if he's even heard the question.

Or perhaps, by this point, it is simply that we've become so similar we must react in this terrible harmony by nature. The motions pass so quickly, surely there has been no time to plan these careful parries, but from my end time seems fairly static.  
Emotions project across this nameless woman's pretty features like some sort of sick slideshow. Betrayal and confusion give way to a misplaced anger and indignation, replaced too shortly in a warped sense of understanding and fear. Her small production is a masterpiece at some short length, while her companion's ranges only in fractions of seconds. Reaver's face only has two settings: disdainful and wrathful and it switches gears at an alarming rate.

I only know how to smile impishly as the realization takes hold of us all in its unique little way.

_Throw the tart in the hole_; the proverbial cat has ripped its way straight out of the bag, and I'll be damned if she isn't a fast little puss.

She turns to run so quickly it's like she's vanished into thin air. One moment I'm staring at her gnarled little up-do, the next I'm met with Reaver's harsh eyes, a vacuum of cold air between us where a fleshy little sacrifice once stood. The whisper of a pistol coming loose of its holster sounds milliseconds before the swish of a cutlass whipping over my shoulder.

I realize a second too late how futile it is, staring at the gentle curve of the sword. Killing the poor creature would be simple, but it's not killing we're after, and having not made this contract with the Shadow Court, I am unaware of it's subtleties. If I'm allowed to drag a sacrifice in by her hair, missing limbs, is a mystery.

It seems like this would be considered 'damaged goods.'

I turn to where my answer should lie with a brand of curiosity too innocent for my question, "Say..."

But Reaver's realizing the uselessness of his weapon in slow motion, the same path I've already travelled. His precious little pistol, and his remarkable skill are no good to us here. I imagine he could probably still shoot her from this distance, as she winds her way between the hanging cages, lining her treacherous path to escape like ominous lanterns, but he doesn't, and I find myself mildly disappointed that he doesn't try. There's a morbid fascination in watching a Hero at work, even in less than heroic circumstances, and I want to marvel at the shadowy form in the distance splattering into the mud so far away there is no sound effect but the bark of a gunshot.

He's glaring at me now, the dangerous end of the weapon pointed in my direction, determined to find something to do with his gun.

Suddenly, my make-believe gargoyle doesn't seem so funny anymore.

A childish sort of fear is winding through my veins, threading through my blood, skipping beats in my heart, and perhaps this is the reason the name Sparrow still plagues me. It's silly, really, even if it's not according to plan, I'm still the fourth and final--a leader of sorts, and I should easily be able to whip this old sack of bones and bullets, skill or no.

But Reaver's grown comfortable in my nervous silence. "Alright then," he tells me, motioning an idle swinging motion with the barrel of his gun, "in you go."

I snort, more for the dramatics of it all than any actual display of skepticism. I wonder if he'd look so self-assured, so condescending if I could hold a mirror up to his face. His arrogant little smirk is losing its sway with the wrinkles worming their way beneath his eyes. His skin is growing subtly sallow and beginning to sag.

He's waited much too long to make this trip.

Idly, I wonder if it is really this far of a journey from Samarkand. Aloud, I announce, "This is really just the sort of inconvenience I meant to be speaking with you about."

He's not speaking, just eyeing the door to this terrible temple, still swinging directions from his weapon. Trying to wave me in obnoxiously, like a fiddler crab might, I suppose.

I continue on, plowing through my tirade like a desperate stall vendor, trying to convince the masses that this soggy carrot can really gain you the marksmanship of a Hero, that this music box could really make your wishes come true. I scowl, despite myself. "Wouldn't it be easier not to make this distasteful little pilgrimage?"

He speaks, but the truths of our performance are still unspoken. "It would be easier," he admits, "if you'd just _jump in the hole_." It's announced in a familiarly arrogant tone, but the words give concession in their existence.

"The Shadow Court is not the only source of power in Albion, Reaver," I explain, "nor the world for that matter. You'd have done better to shop around, work the market." A scream sounds in the distance, a low and painful bellow, reminiscent of a man, but unearthly in a way I've grown oddly fond of--the mark of a Hollow Man raised from the dead for no good, no doubt. The bell-like shriek of the woman follows swiftly.

His eyes narrow, the clock is ticking.

"There are alternate means to obtain power of such caliber, means to destroy power of such caliber as well."

"And you want me to help you find them," he quips. The gun has swung itself away from me for the final time, tapping idly on his shoulder in the baited thought of the moment.

I have the decency to look offended. "I've already found it; we all have."

And it blossoms on his face like a flower, the realization of what we've all seen and missed and passed. It's as if it's never occurred to them the way the Spire operates, its purpose or its keeper. It seems silly that I alone should have this privilege, of witnessing the harm of one wish, of wishing for what one doesn't really want.

Seeing the man before me, I feel slightly less alone, irrational though this idea may be.

"But the gypsy..." he breathes.

Another scream chimes in the distance, and I bite my lip, glancing to wear I know it ought to be. There isn't enough time in the day to discuss the subtleties of Theresa, her strength, her weakness, _her _Spire, and I have even less time than this if the frequency of these distress calls are anything to judge by.

I wave my finger in his face. "Ah, ah, the tart..."

The necessity of the here and now dominates us both, sounds again in the pitch of her terror, ringing in the distance, and I'll help scratch his back because I'm fairly certain he'll scratch mine.

There's no affirmation, no dismissal, only a sniff as he sprints off to the source of the sound, as I follow quickly on his heels. I pretend for a moment that there is no ulterior motive, that we truly are Heroes, that we're here to save a girl, that later we will not cast her to her doom.

The sounds of the shots are oddly comforting.


	3. The Art of Discourse

_Notations: _  
_To __**Piraticaly-Insane**__: Nice to know I actually managed to keep it up through two chapters. I actually think it's kind of funny that in most of these SparrowxReaver fics it's almost become canon that Sparrow is the "pure" Hero, especially since Fable's appeal is that it is a game based on choices. You'd think you'd sift through at least a few evil Sparrows, or at least a few more __**worldly **__ones. Thanks for the review._

To _**Bastardized**__: D: We're grim already? I haven't even gotten started yet! Hopefully I can actually move the plot somewhere sometime soon. I'm not sure how much "developing" I'm actually capable of, it seems like I can never shut my characters up long enough for action. /3 Thanks for the review. ;)_

To _**Ylandel**__: Hm. Best __ever__. Well, that's reassuring... and flattering. 3 Hope I'll live up to your expectations. Thanks for the review._

**The Art of Discourse**

He is absolutely breathtaking.

This is an awful thing to have to admit because, of course, in an introspective fashion I detest this man--hate him, loathe him, abhor the abomination of his creation and despise his creators. It's not a hard thing to do. Reaver, by nature, is a very dislike-able person, and while his arrogance might be easily confused for confidence, though his _three hundred year old _sympathies might inspire a tear or two at a distance, it is quite plain to see what one is dealing with in close quarters: an asshole.

I fool myself into believing our small affinities are coincidental; it doesn't sting any less.

In spite of this, I must concede some small defeat at the sight of him. Half of it, I tribute to the leftover awe of the Hero. I marvel at the speed and precision of his movements, the fractions of fractions of motion for a bullet to burrow through the molding brain of a Hollow Man, and another, and another. The simple elegance of his swordplay is moving in a way I cannot grasp. There is an art to the arching brushes of the blade of his---the one that so rarely need see battle--they paint the world red behind them. An army is lying dead at his feet and I haven't even thought to exhale yet.

The other half, I'm forced to leave to him. His face is deceptively beautiful, boyish even, if only for the instant, long enough for him to remember who he is and what he's about. That awful expression tugs over his features like a blanket; his eyes narrow and his lip pulls back, but it's too late, I've been toddling too close like a moth towards a flame and now my wings are smoking. I am trapped, captive of some carnal brand of lust, though I cannot discern if it is for blood or flesh.

"Consider yourself lucky," he announces smugly, "to have witnessed the matchless skill of _the _Reaver twice in your lifetime."

I have no witty comeback for this, but luckily, I need none. I'm not a woman noted for my many words.

Mechanically, my arm extends, my fist closes, and it's really more a force of habit than anything particularly planned, the mocking smirk that alights upon my face is really more a bonus of not dying than a premeditated upstaging. I've almost forgotten I still own a pistol in light of recent events, let alone that it's in my hand.

The creature reaching for his neck ceases making its awful jerking gestures and crumples out of view from over his shoulder, hitting the ground harmlessly with a surprisingly solid _thud_.

Reaver looks over his shoulder, but I turn away before he looks back, reaching down to collect the girl sprawled amidst the recently _re_-dead men. She's a little bloody, streaked in mud and tears, but whole for the most part and not quite finished yet. Idly, I wonder if the Shadow Court will be insulted at her state, but it doesn't take long to remember how much I actually don't care.

Still, I give a useless brush at her shoulder. I only succeed in smearing her filth across my knuckles as well.

My lip curls and my elbow locks, holding her at a safe distance like an ill-behaved pup by the back of her tattered dress. I can't tell if I'm meant to be the master or the mother. It's short work to decide I'd rather be neither and move to pass her to Reaver, but stop short. It doesn't matter that he's eyeing the poor girl with the same mild distaste, a look better reserved for some sort of insect, but one I'm sure she's used to all the same.

Instead, I dangle the sobbing thing just out of his nonexistent reach, and she hangs from my grip uselessly, almost as if she has accepted her fate--as if she really is nothing more than a hunk of flesh to haggle over, barter with: a piece of meat.

And me? I'm just a simple stall vendor, still spewing my sales pitch.

"It'd save a lot of time," I tempt, as though Reaver doesn't have this element in abundance. "And whores," I chirp, thoughtfully, though I'm fairly certain he'll discard these women at the same rate, maybe even a bit faster.

But there is no means to really make light of such a dark situation, and frivolous as this man is, with his abundance of patience and thought, today he is running a bit late. Time is of the essence in this moment, and a warped way it almost makes him look human. Perhaps it is only a sick satisfaction I receive in seeing him so desperate.

"And what do _you _want with the Spire, little Sparrow?"

I almost drop her.

The girl's foot slips backwards in the mud, legs scrambling awkwardly to regain her footing, disused to supporting herself, terrified to plummet back into the cobblestones of corpses paving the road of Wraithmarsh, but I'm a bit bigger than this. She remains hanging from my fingertips.

His eyes widen marginally before that sinister grin alights upon his face. It's shocking I might react in such a manner, but pleasing that I have, and I'm not sure what I fear more, the words or the question.

Because for a brief moment the gypsy is standing before me, imploring with dead eyes, and it's not that she should feel any sense of betrayal from the little girl whose life she's saved, the little Sparrow with her broken wing. No, it's only a lingering curiosity; her last chance to ask before she crushes me in her hand.

Much the same way I'm about to crush _this _girl.

I fling her away--to the wolves.

Or the wolf.

I must concede he doesn't look particularly wolf-like covered in streaks of her mud, face hand-painted in dirt-washed prints. She's startled now, screaming, as he tries to tuck her away, claps a hand too forcefully over her mouth and murmurs a semi-soothing, "Hush," as though he's not smothering the air right out of her. But it's still hovering in the air, just at the nape of my neck, this apprehension he's brought on.

"Finish out your route, delivery boy," I order tiredly. "I'll see you in Bloodstone."

And it's not so much that I'm upset with him. It's not that I couldn't stand to sacrifice another innocent to the Shadow Court in person. It's not even that I know he might try to offer me up as well, as a two for one type deal.

I just need some time. I need to steal some of his time.

I need to think of a good answer.


	4. Vive Lucien

_Notations: __  
): I promise to shut up next chapter and have a real dialogue between the characters.  
_  
_To __**Piraticaly-Insane**__: D: His sword-combos in game were amazing, and I think that kind of gets brushed aside when you're the hero of skill. Everyone likes to focus on his gun and it makes me sad. Thanks for the review._

To _**Bastardized**__: Lulz. I don't think I know how to do optimistic, anyway. Thanks for the review._

**Vive Lucien**

Bloodstone is my town, has been from the moment I set foot in it, clawed my way up from the very first mishap in Wraithmarsh, and I'll be terribly sad to see it go.

I've never been sure quite what did it. The people, though dirty and uncouth, have always been charming in their own rights. They are more earthly and practical than the frivolous occupants of Bowerstone, not even half as pompous and at least twice as entertaining, and they retain a warped bit of truth, chipped around the edges, but decent and whole, thuggish, though not at all like the thugs of Westcliff.

The scenery is an added bonus. Though the houses are dilapidated, beginning to show their age in their seams, they still inspire a familiar content. They look quaint, despite the cracking paint, as if they should all own white picket fences, but they don't. The houses, like the people, are alarmingly realistic, grounding and solid. They stand tall in the weathering air of the ocean, beaten and bruised, but still here.

I like them.

Bloodstone Manor, of course, is the _pièce de résistance. _It's constructed of the same board as the rest of the city, it's been beaten by the same harsh winds, but there's something unique about it. The way the boards swell outward in the center before tapering up to the roof, it's like a little boy trying to puff out his chest. The mechanics of its construction elude me, though I have the distinct impression the blueprints must be similar to the hull of a ship. There's a very fantastical quality to the shape, as if the Pirate King had dragged his prized vessel ashore and transformed it into this castle.

Even so, you'd never guess at the insides, the rich tapestries and velvet carpets. The heavy darkwood furniture escapes even the most clever imagination, and the rubies and diamonds, silks and exotic dyes hiding inside are even further from the mind. It's heaven for the average pickpocket, and I fear I'm a good deal more magpie than sparrow.

It's a special house.

And I'm going to miss it.

Because, although I've retained ownership of my private palace by the sea for the better part of two years, though I've stowed and sold more rocks here than I can count, though I've pieced together all of the secrets hiding in the bookshelves, I'm going to have to give it up.

And it has nothing to do with Reaver shooting me, or the note on the door. It's just a quiet footnote, a polite political gesture. It's an act of good will, if you will, to give the Hero of Skill back his house, pretending I've been housesitting in his stead, pretend it couldn't make a difference to me whether the tiniest sliver of happiness I've found in the world actually belongs to him.

In the long run, it shouldn't matter. I ought to have the Spire to do as I please with. I'll be too preoccupied to even thing of Bloodstone, or my mansion, or my endearing scoundrel-servants. I'll be doing...

Things.

It's been three hours I've been sitting in the study, drinking myself to bitterness, and staring at the unlit fireplace, and this is still the best I've got. Reaver's been standing in the open doorway behind me for at least ten minutes. He must think I haven't noticed, a master of stealth and skill, but the scent of triumph is just radiating off him. Ego and arrogance.

I think we enjoy each other a good deal more than either of us let on. There's a thin line I've traced between diary entries and private performances in front of fireplaces. I think I remind the selfish bastard of himself, and it pleases him in a sick way.

He finally steps forward, eyes roaming over the untouched walls, the restocked bookshelves, the newly installed finery and flippantry, the too-expensive alcohol. "It's good to see you haven't let he place go completely to Hell."

I'm a little miffed I don't have to tell him he can have it back, but I suppose it saves time.

He's pouring himself a glass by time I find voice. "I want to undo it."

"What?" Reaver asks in a disinterested tone, mouth quickly refocusing onto the amber liquid he's claimed.

"You asked what I wanted to do with it, and I want to undo it."

His brow furrows, face contorts, and I can't tell if it's from the taste of the words or the liquor. "The wish?"

I don't ask him to specify which one. I just smile and tell him, "Everything."


	5. Mirror, Mirror

**Notes: **Everyone thank/blame Whoaless for reminding me this existed. I didn't expect to take it in this direction, and it feels a lot more choppy and unsteady than the other chapters, but this is what came out, and something's better than nothing, hmyes?

I'd love to respond to everybody's reviews, but there are a lot more than I'm used to, and it's been so long since I've updated I'm not sure I'd know what I was talking about, so I'll try to hit everyone up next time.

**Mirror, Mirror**

I'm tired of it, but the feeling just won't go away.

It's wrapped thickly around my waist as I creep down the wooden stairs, silently commanding them not to croak their alarm. It's squeezing so hard my guts are threatening to spill into my mouth when I realize the order is as futile as every other one I give. It's fitting that I should be as queenly in Reaver's home as I am in every other province of the would-be kingdom, and though, I usually can reclaim my mocked and ridiculed crown with a quick flip of my blade, I am reduced to something less in the presence of competition.

I am left feeling too young and awkward, sneaking about my own house. I'm a child snooping about on Christmas morning, and I expect to be scolded accordingly as I turn every winding corner.

I suppose most people feel like children when stacked against Reaver, though. I try to console myself as the feeling wraps higher still, gripping an evil hand around my windpipe. I can't be sure I remember how to feel child-like anyhow. I have a sneaking suspicion I'd never the chance to do it right to begin with.

The pressure in my chest releases too swiftly as I round the last corner, and all my insides sink instantly, out of sorts and far from their proper locations. Bright blue eyes are staring up at me ridiculously from a small, forlorn desk, in a nameless room long forgotten behind the winding path that leads to it. I'm so startled at being caught I nearly drop the candle I'm holding. I'm so filled with juvenile fear I forget to be angry.

I wonder how long he's been looking for them.

"Snooping around again I see, Little Sparrow."

I've got a good memory.

The patriarchal tone rubs me the wrong way entirely, and my non-existent grip on the candle is suddenly bone-crushing, my worried expression suddenly tight and cold. There's papers splayed out before him, and I know what I've left in this tiny piece of storage space. I wonder if he's more upset that I've read it or that I've swept it away so that no one else might.

"Well, if you didn't leave personal pieces of angst lying about people wouldn't read them, Reaver," I reply, semi-thoughtfully, forcing my tone to be light. I'm trying to retain my grip on the situation, but it's too hard. There's a biting edge to the next words, "Any twelve year old _girl _could tell you your supposed to _hide _your _diary_."

He smiles, and if I were anyone else I'd think maybe I'd amused him, but I'm close enough to see wheels turning behind blue eyes. He's thinking of exacting petty revenge in much the same fashion I am, running me through for the simplicity of hearing my scream.

"This is one of those situation in which I have to kill you if I tell you," he confirms quietly, but we both understand it's more complicated than this.

"Because anyone needs some musty old book to tell how much of a bastard you are."

His eyes widen marginally, and I think he might be hurt on some plane of humanity he forgot he possessed. I think he's buried a small piece of soul in those stupid pieces of paper, and now that it's been exposed it's vulnerable and sad.

I can't quite bring myself to care.

"Am I supposed to feel sorry _you _murdered a village three hundred years ago? Does it grate you, Reaver? Because it should." The words feel better than they should. I'm left with the feeling I'm screaming into a mirror, though, and it is sickly satisfying and infinitely painful.

His expression doesn't change much, but he's adopted my bitter tone as his lips part. I don't miss the threat when he stands. "I suppose you would know about selling innocents for happiness. How has it worked out for you?"

We are very still for a long time, and it is very quiet. The vacuum is so sudden and so strong I nearly expect the flame of the candle to go out, but it doesn't, and I can only count the passing moments in its flickers.

It's the room, I convince myself. Self-involved as we are we can love our reflections in public, but in private there's a pound of self-loathing we exact in the other. Much like the mirror. I want to raise a fist, but it's thoughtless and silly. I need the glass in tact for now.

I am disused to calling truce. "I'm leaving for the Northern mountains in the morning. _The Reaver_ will be leaving port at first light. If you've decided to join my crusade, you'll be on it."

I turn on my heel and leave, back through the winding path to my room. The road stretches longer without the apprehension to keep me company.

"You rebuilt _The Reaver_?" he wonders aloud, adopts the change too quickly for normality, but I'm no longer there to answer.

He wants to forget it as badly as I do.


	6. Tonal

**A/N:**Yay, timeskip. To be perfectly honest I had no intention of finishing this until Fable 3 riled up everybody's search for Reaver-fiction and sparked my review engine back up. I'd forgotten it had existed for all intents and purposes, so... if things feel disconnected or unexplained that was the best way I could think of to restart it. I'll try to fill in the holes as I go.

**Tonal**

The only sounds that can describe the frigid air of the Northern Lands are breathless. They are the last whisper of heat escaping frozen lips, the quick whistle of wind spasmed from lungs that cannot function. They cannot be written. However, they are accented solemnly in the heavy clunk of too expensive boots on frosted planks.

The ground crunched thickly under our feet as the ship shrunk behind us. Snow floated sideways, from the sky, from the trees, swirling from the ground. It came as an onslaught from all sides. I did not narrow my eyes at this fury because he did not.

It was silly of me to forsake fur for my crown, but the diplomatic importance seemed such an critical thing to convey. Now, it was only silly with just Reaver left to witness it.

He seemed impartial to the weather, which was simply another maddeningly aggravating trait, one of thousands I was slowly learning to choke back. Sadly, only another I was learning to mimic. I was becoming a student of stoicism, and Reaver had become and extraordinary teacher, regardless if he realized it.

A heavy sigh broke through the whipping of the wind, melted its way between flakes of snow to my ears. It was a well-practiced, queued signal that he was ready to speak and that I should be ready to listen. These were all small touches I had memorized carefully, diligently practiced human expressions to be learned through example, practiced by someone decidedly inhuman. A way to know him, but still only another layer of paint.

It was scary to think I had a fresh coat myself.

"And what precisely do you propose we... propose to the _Great _Monk?"

It took an immense effort to scrunch my face at the well-hidden jab at Hannah's size, finding most of my pores filled with ice by this point, but I still completed the gesture. Another small study in the roll of human expression. Another modeled habit.

"I'll think of something," I assured him, sidling my way over a downed tree trunk. "Something to do with duty and defense and light, and all of that nonsense."

"Nonsense," he snorted, extending a gloved hand.

I took it, but did not mind it. Instead my gaze swept from side to side, trying to locate the source of the echo, but perhaps he was only learning as well. Six weeks on a ship could do terrible things to people.

"You'll have to wait for me to finish with her," I explained plainly.

"And what makes you think I'll stand outside the gate and wait for you to beckon me like a good dog?" His face smashed together into a familiar expression. He seemed to be stuck only seconds behind me. "Not that I need a go at her."

The monastery was looming in the distance, as well as something so small could loom. It was demanding my attention and my time, and it needed dealing with immediately. "Because no Hero in her right mind would believe anything you'd told her."

There was a sinking sensation that rang higher than my feet slipping through the frost, a brief pang of guilt that I was the Hero so misguided.

His reply was snide, the tone finally chiming with a bit of realism, irritation, "Well, get on with it then. I haven't got all day."

The fury of the snow was obscuring him in white before I even turned away, hiding his face from my view, but I was disconcerned. Ever the thorn in my side, he would find his way back unscathed, never lost for too long.

His hand released and my finger slid through his, as implied as everything else.


End file.
